


I Knew Her, She Knew Him

by Alex_deMorra (Ergo_Sum)



Series: Fence Sitter [17]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Absinthe, F/M, M/M, Renaissance Faires, Surprises, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergo_Sum/pseuds/Alex_deMorra
Summary: Chapter 17 - Fence SitterTwenty-one-year-old Micah has taken on a summer job to get away from Danny, their home, and anything that reminded him of their failed relationship. It is halfway through summer and he's traveled up and down to different events to see coffee from one of Cassie's kiosks.He's made more friends than he could have possibly imagined. One of these new friends Tiffany hooks him up with someone she thinks he'll really like. Funny thing, though. The person in question is someone he already knows.





	1. Chapter 1

My phone rang.

It was Danny.

I muted it.

Today was Friday. This weekend's event was a renfaire just outside of SLO and I was in the midst of checking in at the merchant stand. Ben’s book— the one with the instructions for using thee’s and thou’s and dost’s and prithee’s and good morrow’s — was rolled into a cylinder and tucked into the gap of my left arm. Cassie, the chief executive whiz of coffee kiosking, arranged all the payments up front. All I had to do was to show up for a fast exchange of paperwork that left me with a map, an access pass, and rough timing for management’s inspection of my set-up.

Summer so far had been filled with a hazy, dazy blur of reddish-brown dirt that infiltrated my every orifice, as evidenced by the great masses of it left on tissues and shower floors of campsites found west of the 5 and south of the 80. Not that I minded. On most weekends there were also notable quantities of pillowy cleavage, ample biceps, chain mail, belly dancers, hackneyed jesters, emptied tankards. Furthermore, there was no shortage of swordplay, which included the condom-addled version I engaged in with a wide array of people, at various times during the day or night, under the stars, behind a caravan, inside a tent or a backseat, on the bed of a pickup truck, or…wherever.

Last week’s rodeo was much the same except Stetsons replaced the armor, country music replaced madrigals, and I got to sleep indoors with Tracey, the women’s fourth place ribbon holder for barrel racing who was visiting for the weekend from Alberta.

Fucking my way through June and July may not have been the healthiest way to get over Danny. But I didn’t care. The coffee experiment Cassie designed had me visiting the Inland Empire, Sacramento, Vallejo, Lake Tahoe, plus one shot up to the Middle-of-Nowhere Oregon. So, I didn't just fuck my way through summer, I fucked my way through the southern half of the west coast. The fact that I did so between days when I served up coffee made it better. Not because I thought I could do the job better than him.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to.

But it did help to displace four years of Saturday nights. I watched him from the two-top I claimed as my own or worked side-by-side with him behind the bar. Or snuck out with him to the storage room or the patio behind the shop for longer than we should have. Thanks to the events of this summer, the smell of coffee slowly, slowly stopped reminding me of him. All I had to do to further reduce the olfactory connection to my ex was to embrace the opportunities that came my way.

Opportunities were, by the way, plentiful.

They began in June when a guy named Sylvan took me under his wing at my first renfaire. He was with the peasant class guild known for raising general and drunken to heroic levels. He introduced me to Mark, who introduced me to Sue. Next was Geoffrey, who knew Amanda, Tiffany, Francis and Jeremy, each of whom introduced me to others. Not that I knew them all in _that_ way.

Just a couple.

Maybe a few.

So, it was more people than I had fingers on one hand and less than the number of miles I’d added to Cassie’s car. Either way, we all became friends and I now had a standing invitation to join Tent City (or the local alternative) where bawdy and intimate evening performances that involved stories, drink, song, warfare were used as a kind of foreplay before getting paired off with, pleading sleep and proceeding not to get any.

It was the perfect antidote to the events of this past spring.

Back at the registration booth, I finished up the paperwork, delivered the kiosk to its site location, hooked up the water and electricity, Once all excuses that would have prevented me from calling back sooner were exercised, I returned Danny’s call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Danny.”

“Hi, Micah,” he sounded subdued. “There’s a —.” I didn’t hear the rest because I was accosted from behind. It was an accosting of the friendliest kind. A hug and a warm greeting from a one-person, ginger-haired, welcoming committee named Tiffany.

I smiled to greet her and pointed to my phone; she clapped her hands over her mouth and took a few steps back so that I could speak privately. “I didn’t realize you had company,” he said in that clipped tone that told me he was miffed.

My apology was half-assed, “Sorry. Someone stopped by to say hello and they didn’t see I was on the phone. Anyhow, you said there was something for me?”

“Yeah. Letters from school.”

“What do they say?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to open them?”

“Can you?”

Paper ripped in the background while Tiffany pulled at her clothes to smooth them out. She caught me watching and batted her lashes at me. Her hair was big with tight spiraled curls and she had a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, puffy and angelic lips, and rich, brown eyes. Mark called her Rubenesque, she identified as _fluffy_ , and I thought she was the apex a generous and inclusive kind of hedonism. There was no one like Tiffany. No one looked like her. No one acted like her. No one talked like her. There was only her. And, as she liked to say, there _could be_ only one.

Danny’s voice brought my attention back to the phone, “The first one is your grades. Do you want to know?”

“No.” I didn’t need him to remind me how badly I had trashed my final quarter as an undergraduate. It cost me the honor of graduating _summa cum laude_ , which in itself wasn’t the end of the world but it was just one more example of getting close to the finish line, only to have the ground disappear from under me.

Not that I was bitter.

“The second one is a receipt for the payment for your next semester and instructions to enroll by phone.”

“Is it a number with a code?”

“Yeah. There is also a link to do it online.”

“Cool. Can you text those?”

“Sure.”

“Is there anything else?”

“There’s…” he paused and when he came back, he sounded like he had swallowed something rotten, “something from the housing department.”

“Cool. What does it say?”

“There’s a shared room available.”

“How do I accept?”

“Micah,” he pleaded and I could practically see how he'd pinched together his raised eyebrows and pulled the sides of his mouth in an angry pout.

 _Ice cold_ , I reminded myself when I asked, “What are the instructions?”

“There’s a form to send in.”

“Okay, I’ll get you an address to send it.”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice was thin and reedy, now obvious that my will and desire to move on with my life had injured him.

 _Hurts, doesn't it?_ I thought and immediately felt guilty. But why? I didn't have a home anymore. The place I called home was his -- it belonged to him. The last months I lived there injured me and if he finally felt something back...well, that wasn’t something I did on purpose. It was necessary. Even if doing so turned me into a dick.

Danny went on (as he did) in willful ignorance, “You don’t have to leave. It’s so much more expensive to live there and…”

I cut him off. “If I give you an address will you send it or should I just call the housing office and another form?”

“I’ll send it,” He conceded. The defeat that came over the phone provoked instant self-loathing.

“Cool. Thanks for the update.”

“When are we going to talk for real, Micah?”

Talk for real … talk for real. Why should we? All I wanted to do was to forget he existed while I got over him. I didn’t want anything from him other than for him to let me figure it out when I got back in the fall. If I talked to him, I’d cave. I’d give him whatever he wanted. At the same time, I didn’t want to shut him out because…well, among other things, it was a dick move. And I didn't know what _among other things_ meant. “I don’t know,” I told him, “Not now, though. Probably next week sometime.”

“Please don’t make plans until we talk.”

“Okay.”

“For real, Micah. Promise me.” He knew I was blowing him off.

Again.

I reasoned, “Whatever you have to say isn’t going to change my mind.”

“Will you just…” he started yelling, clearly frustrated with me, and then stopped speaking altogether. I pictured him waving a hand around, stalking across the room with larger strides than appeared possible for someone of his stature. He was more composed when he began again, “I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I should have listened earlier. You’re my best friend and I love you more than I love anyone. You can’t…”

“Danny,” I admonished him and stopped myself from saying anything else because those words would be cutting. “Just stop. Please.”

“Micah?”

I huffed, “What, Danny?”

“I mean it. I do love you. And I miss you a lot.”

“Okay.” The word was intended to be flippant but it didn’t come out that way at all. “Bye, Danny.”

“Bye.”

Someone behind me cleared their throat.

Tiffany.

Whoops.

I spaced out and momentarily forgot where I was and covered this up with a failed attempt to step into character, “ _Sorry, me lady_.”

“Micah,” she gasped and draped her hand along her rose-scented décolletage (her pose seemed to ask why should I be satisfied with her cleavage when I could add an appreciation ofher neck and shoulders at the same time). She complained dramatically, “I thought you were getting better than that. So many weeks of personal instruction and this is how you greet me?”

She did spend a fair amount of time attempting to teach me faire speak and had one hell of a reward system that included judicious use of cunning-linguistics and my choice of truth or dare for a set of correct answers. Then, there was her ever refreshed array of toys. _Forget the carrot, Micah. The stick — and this one in particular — is the bomb. Tell me: On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like pegging?_

Presently, she instructed, “Repeat after me. _I cry your mercy, Mistress Tiffany,_ ” she said in a carefully rendered oldey-worldey English accent that I just about recognized as authentic for the Elizabethan era. The phrase was one that I — her dedicated and careful student —repeated, “ _I cry your mercy, Mistress Tiffany_ ,” I said. Meh. It was passable.

 _“Thou dost taketh my breath away,”_ sighed Tiffany and she handed me an open stainless steel flask with something inside of it that smelled of anise and brought her fingers together to pinch the air as an indication that I should only have a little. I took a modest sip and, surprised by the explosion of flavor and fire on my tongue, wheezed out the requested phrase, “ _Thou dost taketh my breath away_.”

 _“Prithee, come hither! We has’t a party to receiveth to._ ”

“ _Privy, come hither --"_

“No, sweetie. I didn’t ask you for a toilet. I asked please. _Prithee_. Not _Privy_.”

“Oh, right,” I cleared my throat and sipped once more from the task, “ _Prithee, come hither_ …what next?”

_“We has’t a party to receiveth to.”_

“ _We has’t a party,_ ” I squinted and made a face rather than parroting back the last part of the phrase. “You’re up to something.”

“Indeed, I am,” she answered churlishly and with the promise of some upcoming vulgarity. I also had the feeling I should know what this was about but I didn’t. She clued me in, “ _I hath brought thee a presenteth. A lusty and handsome gentleman yond i'm sure thee shall liketh v'ry much._ ”

I have up on my thee’s and thou’s to ask straight up, “There’s a guy you want me to meet? What _kind_ of guy _._ ”

“ _Mmm…i supposeth he’s mine own faire fling perchance. Besides, it wouldst be’est too cruel of me to keepeth that gent to myself. That gent wast madeth f'r sharing._ ”

“Oh, got it. You want me to meet _your_ guy. I didn’t know you had a guy,” I laughed, happy for her, despite the feeling that a shoe hadn’t yet dropped.If he had been her _faire affaire_ it meant they had a real romance that lasted for the season and maybe longer. He was merely a _faire fling_ , which meant they were fucking around. Which was a relief since she and I had already hooked up several times. That meant he must be new. But if he were new, why would she share him? I was so confused. “Wait. Can you explain this to me in English?”

She was ready to protest that the Queen’s English of four hundred years ago was, by all accounts the English language, perfectly suited for conversation (I’d heard this argument before) when I cut her off, “ _Modern_ English, please.”

She huffed, “Very well.”

I pressed her to continue, “Soooo, who is he?”

“He’s a friend of mine just like _you_ are a friend of mine. I don’t know him from faire; we go to school together.”

“Okay. Tell me more.”

“He and I were hanging out and we were talking about _things_ , as you do.”

“What kind of things?”

“Bucket list things,” she said and when I was clearly even more confused she explained, “Things you have to try before you kick the bucket.”

“You were talking about your…bucket list.”

“Indeed,” she purred, tilted her head to one side, and licked her lips, holding the bottom one under her top two teeth and she deliberated what she would say next. “It turns out that he’s bi-curious.”

“So…you're hooking me up with your dude?”

“Ugh, that sounds so ...okay, yes. But no. Not like you're thinking."

"How am I thinking?"

"I don't know. But trust me when I tell you that whatever you're thinking, it's not like that. And stop being so impatient. I’m not done with my story yet.”

I shut my mouth, temporarily berated, and waited for whatever else she had to say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the faire inspectors poking around the set-up next to mine. That meant I was next. And after that, I was free for the evening. Tiffany waited until my eyes were on her again before she continued. “It turns out that my friend has particular taste. Not only that, he’s met a few people he’d want to _do the deed_ with. And — this is the part that’s so awesome — you, Micah Swaeler, are one of those people.”

“Wait! What? I know him? Who is it?”

Her smile remained nefarious. I was pretty sure that meant she was going to keep her secret to herself. She confirmed it when she said, “Not telling.”

“That’s so unfair!”

“It’s very fair. I’m only telling you what I told him.”

“Well, what’s that then?”

“Are you going to let me tell this story or what?” she snipped. I shut my mouth (again), settled back, and waited for her to go on. “Yes. Thank you. So. As I was saying before you so _rudely_ interrupted me. I was at his place and the conversation went here and there and he ended up breaking out this pile of photographs.”

“So, I know him well enough that he’s got a photo of me.”

“Yes. Now, hush. He was showing me these photos, telling me stories about his life, pointing out all the hot dudes, and there you were. The two of you looked…oh, god…you guys looked so amazing together. Anyhow, I didn’t tell him that I knew you when I saw the picture. I waited until we were done with the stack and said I knew _one_ of the people he mentioned. He still doesn’t know who…and you don’t get to know either.”

I held up my pointer finger and said, “Slight flaw in your plan, Tiffany. If you keep our identities secret, nothing will happen.”

“Oh ye of little faith, Micah. He’s here.”

“He’s _here_?”

“Mmm hm. He’s hanging all by his lonesome in Tent City until I get back,” she said.

“Why didn’t you bring him here?”

“I wanted to surprise you. But I also wanted to give you a little heads up before the two of you met face to face.”

“Can’t you give me another hint? Like how do I know him?”

“Nope.”

“Gymnastics? Was he on a competitive team or something?" Now I wracked my brain trying to think of anyone other than Scott gave off any vibes. I didn't think there was anyone. "School? Did I go to school with him?"

She pretended to zip her lips.

Oh, crap. What if it was Tyrell? That would be awkward. He and I had sent a few messages back and forth but nothing that indicated that we should get together anytime soon. Plus, he was in Chicago, not California.

Where else could I have met someone?I wasn't part of the club scene. He hadn't been to a faire before. There weren't many options. Gymnastics, school, and capoeira. Guaranteed there was no on in that last group. That meant whoever it was would have been someone from the first two categories. But, who?

Tiffany's eyes continued to sparkle with glee while she pursed her lips, committed to holding on to this information for a little bit longer.

"Micah?" asked one of two inspectors who came by with a clipboard.

"That's me," I said and shook their hands.

Tiffany stuck around while I show management about the electrics, water, safety features, as well as the signage, which had to be in keeping with the rest of the event. Soon, they had come and gone, leaving me to lock up and follow Tiffany up to Tent City in order to meet this mystery man.

There he was.

The back of him at any rate.

My jaw dropped.

No.

It couldn't be.

The man in question was tall, beefy even. He had a trim, thick middle, an ass that practically shake hands with me from twenty feet away, and long black hair that fell past his shoulder blades in shiny, messy waves. His sweat-damp, long sleeved t-shirt had the sleeves pushed up to his elbows; the fabric was thin enough to see his muscles working.

When Tiffany noticed that I stopped in my tracks, she reached back and grabbed my hand. "I was right, wasn't I?" she asked, and I didn't need to answer because she already knew it. "I could tell by the way you looked at each other in the picture.How the two of you haven't figured out how to hook up yet just proves that for two very smart, beautiful men, you can be pretty clueless. At any rate, here's hoping this weekend works out."

I didn't know what to say to that either. My mind was officially blown. Tiffany directed her attention up the hill, calling out in a sing-song voice that belied her natural alto, “Dante, my love. Look who I found...” Seemingly clueless to our mutual response, Tiffany skipped to his side, held out her flask, and proceeded to finger the bottom hem of his shirt while she murmured just loud enough for me to here, "Did I manage to surprise you, sweetie?"

He accepted her flask and took a swig.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mind if I sit?”

The upward tilt of Dante’s mouth was just visible in the fading light.  His hair, still wet from a recent shower, turned the shoulders and back of his short-sleeved guayabera and darker version of itself. He also wore his favorite type of faded jeans — the ones so worn with holes we took to calling them spiritual. 

I patted the space next to me on the blanket covered straw bale but rather than simply taking a seat, Dante walked around to the other side. He sat with his back to the setting sun in order to look out onto the fairground visible beyond the lip of the hill. The same hill that Tiffany and I had walked up together earlier this afternoon.

It had taken less than a minute after Tiffany’s introduction for me to get to my freak out. It was subtle and took the form my seeking out _things that had to get done._ I had already set-up my tent, helped clear the grounds, and stacked firewood for the bonfire. I walked the grounds to get a feel for how far things were so that I could answer the punter who asked, _do you know where I can find…_ whatever it was they would be looking for. I read (or pretended to) for a good twenty minutes when Dante showed up.

So.

Here he was.

Right next to me.

And when he leaned in to give me a friendly knock from his shoulder to mine, his heat lingered. I waited for him to say something but when he didn’t, I began, “I didn’t expect…” and then I stopped because I wasn’t sure which way to end that sentence:

…to see you here.

…that you knew Tiffany the same way that I did.

…to fuck you this weekend.

He glanced at me and laughed before he tucked a wet lock behind his ear and looked straight ahead and into the horizon. “Hm. No, I didn’t either.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Tiffany …well…she kinda outed you. I mean, I know she didn’t mean to…um…she probably didn’t consider that it would be invading your privacy by telling me about…your bucket list.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said with a casual disinterest that surprised me. Anyone who regularly went to _Mestre’s_ circle that knew about me and Danny. He and I were, for lack of a better term, accepted. But we weren’t as openly affectionate in the same way that others were at _Tia’s_. Or in the way that he and I were when we went out. More than that, no one brought it up. Ever. The issue of my queerness lay somewhere between a non-issue and a black hole. 

Perhaps Dante’s lack of concern wasn’t so odd, after all. Either way, he added, “I didn’t even think of that. Thanks.”

The air between us thickened with expectation as more time passed.

“So…” I said.

“So,” he replied, blank-faced as he peered beyond the edge of the hill in front of him. This was ridiculous.

The two of us have known each other for the best part of a decade. When I joined the capoeira group, he was the guy who took me under his wing. He looked out for me and, no matter how awkward I got with him or anyone else, he kept reaching out to me. On a day that I didn’t have a workout, he would spontaneously show up to drag me to the beach with his friends. At class he’d pull me to one of the middle or front rows so that I wouldn't hide away. After a trip to see his mom, he always shared of some candy he brought back.

We should be able to figure out how to talk to each other about something a bit (a lot) personal. Instead, his leg vibrated with astonishing speed and, if I wasn’t careful, I was going to bite through my lip. The silence was broken when he asked, “Is this weird?”

I blurted, “Maybe a little.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

A chill washed over me when the sun dipped below the horizon. Colors of me and him and of the area around us were on their way toward monotone but weren’t quite there yet. I could still see that his jeans were bluish and my book was greenish but when they were set side-by-side, they almost looked the same. But shapes were clear and from this angle, I visually traced Dante’s nose from the bridge to the slight bump under it, onto the straight part, over the bulging tip, and down to the philtrum that led to the soft pillows of his lips.

I could kiss those lips.

Apparently, he wanted me to.

My heart pounded to think of it. At the same time, I doubted the truth of it. Tiffany must have misunderstood him.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I lied. “I mean if that worries you.”

He frowned and asked, “No?”

“It’s just that…well, what are the odds, you know? There’s the fact that we both know Tiffany. Then, of all the people she knows — and there are a lot of them — you and I are the ones she tries to hook-up.” I faltered and thought that the best thing I could do for both of us was to let him off the hook. “Dante, just because she said something doesn’t mean you’re…we’re…obligated.”

Dante’s eyebrows pressed together to create the thick wrinkle and his leg vibrated even faster. “No one is obligated. But…” he sighed, licked his lips, and angled towards me, “I would want to. With you.”

He could have anyone.

And of course, I wanted him. He was my biggest fantasy. At the same time, I wanted him so badly that I didn’t want him at all. What if something went wrong? What if we were incompatible? What if he didn’t like being with me? 

The risk was too great.

But it was Dante.

_Fuck._

“I’m flattered…”

“You don’t want me?” he interrupted. So much for letting him down gently. 

“That’s not it.”

“You _do_ want me?”

I rolled my eyes. “Dude. There isn’t anyone on the face of this earth who wouldn’t want you. But. Well. Isn’t it complicated?”

“Why would it be complicated? We’re friends. I trust you. You would make it good,” he said. 

Sex with friends wasn’t always the good idea it was cracked up to be. Despite the fact that I knew we _should_ talk about it, I didn’t know how or about what or when, between us, we had enough laid out to be able to make the call for yes or for no. I tried starting with the obvious, “Do you have…um…certain things you wanted to do?”

His laugh was uncomfortable, “You make it sound like a business transaction. I don’t want that, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. Now I hoped he had something to add because that question was the only one I could think of and, believe me, I wasn’t any more clear about things for asking it. “What do you want then?”

“I want to be with you.”

“You want to be with me,” I repeated while my brain raced in the background, “And with Tiffany?”

“Yeah, sure. With Tiffany,” he said with a softness with a softness that might have been uncertainty. I didn’t know what he had to be uncertain about. This was Dante. He could have whoever, whenever, and however, he wanted. 

Ten feet from us, Amanda, Nash, and Geoffrey bickered about the quality of the kindling while Sylvan, who was on his hands and knees, lit a long stick on fire and poked the hot end into the gaps of the wood I had stacked there not so long ago. I heard the crackle of the twigs. The first smell of scorched pine needles wafted toward us. By tomorrow morning, it will have permeated everything.

Dante finished his thought, “Or not. Whatever you want.”

My chest thrummed at his response. He bumped me again, “What? Why are you smiling like that?”

Was I smiling? I hadn’t realized. “How am I smiling?”

“It’s a dirty smile, man,” he laughed, his eyes twinkled as they volleyed up to my eyes and back down to my mouth. Immediately, he chewed on his own lip, got more serious and, with a nod, said, “I like it.” 

And — not going to lie — I liked him liking it. But there was still this one thing that, despite his feeling about to-do lists and _arrangements_ , needed to be voiced. Or questioned. Or agreed to. Or something.

Oh, god. How was I going to bring this up?

_Time to be brave_ , I told myself. “Okay but what about…” _anal_. 

“Micah, you're making a funny face,” Dante’s lips were skewed to one side and, like me, his nose wrinkled and his eyebrows were raised in perfect, dual arches. “What about what?”

I huffed uncomfortably and shifted my seat on the straw bale, which poked at me despite the blanket I sat on. “So…I should probably just say…um…I don’t…” _just give up my ass to anyone. Not that you’re just anyone. But this would be just a night. You know, a hook-up. That was the implication from Tiffany, anyway. And this is one of those things that would be a big deal for me. So I don’t want to disappoint you. And it isn’t like I wouldn’t want to. But it would be premature, don’t you think?_ Dante leaned forward, his eyebrows still raised, and waited for me to finish my thought, which hung in the air for ages. “…bottom.”

He tilted his head in confusion, “Bottom?” 

I rolled my eyes and willed him to figure it out. Okay, to be fair, English wasn’t exactly his first language. That said, of all the terms used for all the circumstances, this one was self-explanatory.

He wasn’t getting it.

“Not to be crude,” I clarified — and I totally meant to be crude because maybe the shock would help him get his mind together before we did something he really didn’t want to do. Having to face each other now was one thing but after doing something that he discovered he wasn’t cool with was something else altogether. Not that it’s gone that way with someone before but it couldn’t with Dante. It just couldn’t. Worst case: what if he regretted it? _Fuck it_. I decided to just say it, “but it would help me to know if the thing you’re looking for is my dick in your ass.” 

His face answered for him. 

Oh, god.

He was.

Dante’s pupils dilated so quickly, I thought I imagined it and for a moment, his thoughts were unfiltered and magnified, with words like _I can’t_ and _can I_ and _please_ and _oh yes_. 

Whoa.

“Okay,” I said, filled with disbelief, and I sat straight up to look away from him in order to clear my head. My heart ramped up to double-time and I wiped my hands along my legs to steady my nerves. 

Shit.

We were friends. I couldn’t do this, could it?

But if he wanted me to…and I wanted to…why wouldn’t I?

This was such a mindfuck.

My ambivalence didn’t bode well for him either. Dante crossed his arms, pressed his shoulders to his ears, and looked away. 

“ _Fie! H’re thou art_ ,” Tiffany startled us when she appeared not five feet in front of us and crowed in triumph. Her eyes sparkled and looked on us with approval, “ _I wast w'rri'd thee'd starteth without me._ ”

She hadn’t quite caught the current vibe between us and that didn’t stop her from nudging each of us back to make room for her. Tiffany’s silver flask made another appearance. “ _Absinthe?_ ” she asked. It was an innocent enough question that was quickly followed up with, “ _Taketh t easy. ’Tis potent and can be’est ghastly in the m'rning._ ”

I knew that, like everyone else here, she was excited for the weekend to kick off. Nevertheless, I was not in the mood to have to translate everything said around me into the modern version of English, “What?”

She dropped out of character to say, “That means, my love, that you’ll need to go easy drinking it. It’s potent and will sneak up on you before you know it.”

I took another sip so as not to be rude.

The rest of the night passed slowly thanks to my growing anxiety about Dante — about what it would and wouldn’t mean, about what we would and wouldn’t do, about what would be different with Tiffany there, and how in all the things I had ever imagined with him, sharing the experience wasn’t one of them.

I looked at the with their heads bowed together as they giggled, tipsy with absinthe and expectation.

I was exhausted just thinking about it.

This wasn’t going to happen.

I couldn’t do it.

“Hey guys, I need to turn in early,” I made my excuses and expected Tiffany to scold me for being one of the first to disappear — alone, no less — but she refrained. In consolation, I suggested, “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” Dante said with a quick, shallow smile. He rubbed Tiffany’s back while she snuggled into him.

My hands were stuffed in my pocket during the short walk to my tent and promptly collapsed, fully dressed, onto my sleeping bag where I hugged my pillow, closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep amidst singing and laughter. The night wore on. I pictured the visuals that went with the sounds of Geoffrey dancing with a sword on his head while Amanda chasing Sylvan around the fire while wearing his codpiece.

I twisted one way to get comfortable and twisted back when it didn’t work. The pillow stayed in my arms. I rubbed my nose across one fabric and pretended it was Dante. I didn’t have to settle for the pillow; the man was practically right here and he wanted me. I tried sleeping again but it didn’t happen. Is it possible to want something so much that you don’t want it at all? As usual, I decided that I was being ridiculous.

So I got up to rejoin the party.

“Micah, _th’e thou art_!” Mark and Sylvan tottered toward me with their respective right and left leg tied together, no doubt to have fun with three-legged race metaphors. Or, at least the three-legged part.

“Have you seen Tiffany?” I asked casually.

“ _Aye we has’t_. _The lady is fine forsooth,”_ leered Mark while Sylvan offered, _“The lady has gone to sleep chamber and may not wanteth to best both’r’d.”_

A quick glance over to her tent told me it was occupied.

The tent, by the way, was as lavish as the rest of her. I had a two-person tent that could comfortably fit…well, it barely fit me comfortably. On the other hand, she had a tent that would fit six of me. It was an octagon with screens and curtains on each of its eight panels, which gave it plenty of air flow and also plenty of privacy.

I knew from experience that the inside was decorated — seriously, decorated — in lush oranges and reds. There were crates that acted as nightstands; they were draped with colorful scarves, LED lamps and lanterns, a bed made of camping mats that had been made up with soft sheets, a duvet, and even a fake fur blanket. Pockets of supplies were artfully arranged amongst glittering accent pillows and the floor was covered in a dark rug with tassels.

That’s how I remembered it, anyway. I walked to the tent and my pulse raced faster in proportion to the two vague, backlit shapes moving closer to each other. She cooed something to him. Something intimate.

I shouldn’t interfere.

But.

Oh, man.

I made a deal with myself.

“Tiff?” I called softly.

If she didn’t hear me, I’d go back to my tent and leave them alone.

But she _did_ hear me.

She answered.

Before she came to unzip the tent flap, I heard her whisper something that sounded a lot like, “See? I told you he’d show up.”


	3. Chapter 3

I found myself on my hands and knees, with the tent swirling over my head, and with someone pulling at my foot to remove my other boot. “ _Aaup._ And there’s the other one,” announced Tiffany, who had thankfully ditched faire speak at the same place I ditched my inhibitions -- at the bottom of her flask.

Now that my feet were free, I crawled toward the pile of blankets and comforters that resembled a bed. My progress was slowed by the pants that pooled around my thighs. These too were stripped off — first, one leg and then the other — only for my knees to become entangled to land me face first in the soft pile I headed for.

Tiffany was next. She fell on me and promptly rolled me onto my back. A giggle bubbled out of her as she got comfortable and rested — no, pressed — the entire right-hand side of her body against mine. With the perfectly rounded baby-pink point of her index finger, she traced my jaw and, when she arrived at the hollow just under my chin, turned it toward her so that she and I were nose-to-nose.

“Are you ready for this?” she cackled and she kissed me, blurring what I had planned to say into, “Mmmph.”

Dante toed off his boots and peeled off his shirt to expose his brown skin, thick and smooth and dappled with the inconsistent light of the room. As he came closer, the shadows stretched in the valleys between his curves and left me mesmerized.

“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” she uttered.

_So gorgeous._

Tiffany hooked another finger in his pant loop to bring him closer and giggled, “Get your ass over here. Micah and I are going have our way with you.”

It was funny how she made these grand proclamations on my behalf. I wasn’t some Lothario, willing and able to seduce…well, anybody. I was just a dude who (and this was embarrassing because it was true) went along for the ride, happy enough when I landed with someone compatible. I didn’t have Danny’s aggressive technique, Tiffany’s cheeky confidence, or Dante’s soft, easy sensuality.

I was merely a student. A scientist of sorts. A sponge who had picked up information after having had an experience and, depending who I was with, tried to match the lover to the thing they loved, doing more of it when I was right, and never again when I wasn’t. Sex with me was an intellectual prospect. Not that it was unpleasant to be with me (I hoped) but I suspected that a partner who had clued in to how much thinking was involved with my participation might decline their own participation in future.

My head was always in the game.

That was a joke.

I made a joke.

Get it?

Oh, god — who did that?

That’s exactly the kind of thing I did when faced in a situation like this. Not that I had ever been in a situation quite like this before. I was always thinking, thinking, thinking. I would be horrified if anyone could actually see into my brain. They would hate to know this happened during what was supposed to be the nicest possible experience.

And it wasn’t like I was absent. It was just…how I did things when the situation felt daunting.

Tiffany maneuvered herself up to her knees. Then she grasped my arm and pulled me up to do the same. Right. We were doing something.

There we were. The two of us eye level with Dante’s fly when Tiffany — lighthearted in her seduction — palmed his crotch to outline his substantial hard-on — and hummed as she told me, “We have a job to do this evening. A very important one. It requires teamwork,”

She unbuttoned his fly.

I kneeled there and salivated.

My eyes coasted up his torso, to the rise and fall of his chest, to his thick neck and, finally, to his eyes which sought me out. They pinned me in place and revealed something of himself — or, of me — that I wanted to ignore. But couldn’t.

I couldn’t even manage to look away.

Surely, this was the booze at play.

The feeling that rolled through me was why I didn’t drink; I hated the loss of control. From time-to-time, I indulged in a beer. A beer. A glass of wine. Singular. My twenty-first birthday was months ago and I had yet to have a shot or a cocktail. I even refrained allergy pills and preferred, instead, to whine and sniffle in relative privacy. This was the sort of discomfort I was comfortable with. In contrast, I had no idea what to do with this culpable and allotropic consciousness I currently floated in.

So, I ignored it.

I ignored everything but my fingers. The ones that, now that he was here, toyed with Dante. They floated over the thin, coarse line of his happy trail. They traced the shallow, swirly knot of his bellybutton. They roamed the ripples of his rib cage, over the curves of his pecs, and onto the flatter surface of his stomach that pushed my hand out with his every inhale.

And while that happened, his fingers toyed with me. They floated over the loose, sloppy curls of my hair that hadn’t been cut all summer. They traced the whorls and ridges of my ear. They roamed the topography of my face, of my eyebrows and cheeks and chin. And when they passed over my nose and lips, I could feel my breath reflected back to me.

His eyes burrowed into mine through all of it.

Just next to me, Tiffany emitted a low whistle. “Micah, look at this,” she breathed, having shed Dante’s pants and slipped her hand around the base of Dante’s dick. She held it straight out so that it divided the space between us and rubbed her nose back and forth along his length and, like Dante, watched me with glittering brown eyes. Where his eyes were soft and curious, hers were alight with amusement. Then, as if her orchestration was one giant, altruistic dare (I suspected it was), she raised an eyebrow and suggested, “Shall we?”

If I had no previous desire to comply, this would have been the moment that changed my mind.

We went in together.

Me on his right side and her on his left with me, for the moment, as her mirror. Our tongues extended into points, we touched down on either side of his slit to tangle briefly before we started the long, uninterrupted slide over his glans and down his shaft and continued until we captured his testes, one in each of our respective mouths.

She returned continued to give him head while my mouth sunk into the crease of his hip. I nipped and pulled at his skin, a counterpoint to her gentle lapping.

His leg vibrated again.

I gazed up, my face half-buried in the curve below his hip, and felt the full force of his rapt attention on me.

And there it remained while his fingers smoothed my hair from my forehead, trailed down my cheek, and skated over my lips. When his jaw dropped, mine did the same (such was the power of suggestion). My mouth welcomed his thumb (it was salty). The thick ridge of his nail coasted along my tongue while the pad explored my teeth, my hard and soft pallets, the insides of my cheeks, my uvula. My lips closed around the padding of his hand. I swirled my tongue around his thumb’s length and sucked on it while I cupped his wrist in both of my hands and maintained eye contact.

Tiffany (the minx) briefly pulled me into a kiss that doubled as a ruse to feed me his dick. I didn’t mind. It was my pleasure. As was the attention she put into the trail of caresses down my body. My underwear was jettisoned (and possibly torn). Her mouth was hot and soft and wet and when she planted it on me, I moaned. The vibrations of my throat caused Dante to do the same.

Was it just this evening that I thought this might have been a bad idea? I couldn’t recall. Nor did I need to. It was hard enough to focus on what I was doing to him (never mind what she did to me). There was no capacity left in me to philosophize whether I spent too much time trying to understand the past at the expense of living. Or whether my participation tonight had more to do with fighting my monsters as opposed to seeking out the invincible summer that supposedly lay within me.

Those were thoughts for another time. Other ones were far more pressing. On the back of my throat, to be specific.

I wrapped my fist around the base of Dante’s shaft and pulled off so as not to gag. My chest expanded and contracted quickly as if I had just arrived after running to get here. _Slow down_ , I told myself and nuzzled the tip of him while I caught my breath.

In other circumstances — ones with just the two of us — I would have introduced myself to this part of him more slowly. Had he worn underwear, I would have cupped him and rolled him in my hand to feel his heft and shape. I would have rubbed my nose along his skin, feeling it stretch across his filling sac and hardening length. I would have planted tiny kisses for every new centimeter I exposed when I peeled off his jeans. And as I did, I would have admired the deep plum color of his privates, so dark as to almost match the thatch that crowned them.

In this circumstance, however, I had a partner who would do to me what I did to him. And because I had yet to learn what he liked, I employed all the variety of touch I could imagine from soft, barely-there licks to engulfing swathes of my full tongue from his taint, over his balls, and up the entire length of him. I blew him with soft cooling air until he the very moment he was dry. Then, I would slurp him into my hot mouth and apply a suction so vigorous as to be on the threshold of pain.

Every one of these evoked a different set of sounds, each of them was glorious. And of course, I wasn’t just doing the giving. Everything I did to Dante, Tiffany did to me. She worked me until her lips stretched to their limit, until I glistened like him, and until I sprung back with a _thwap_ against my stomach when she released me.

Dante’s dick twitched when he saw that. His knees buckled and fell to his knees with a groan. He barely landed on the side of the impromptu bed where tipped to his side where he reached for Tiffany, and pulled her up on the bed beside him (I felt her absence immediately) in order to hastily undo the last of her clothes.

Tiffany — with her plump thighs, her round belly, her breasts that exactly fit my hands, her deeply pink nipples (the left was inverted) on gossamer skin separated by a freckle-covered valley — was the very epitome of a natural beauty.

To me, she was the ultimate hedonist who took pleasure even in the exacting way in which she groomed herself. Each hair (of the ones not depilated) carefully snipped, her skin anointed with rose oil, her toenails cut to the quick, her fingernails shaped into ovals and coated with a color that came into being when someone figured out how to mix cotton candy with brown sugar and marshmallows.

The two of them embraced on the bed, each of them beautiful and sexy in their own right. My attention was split; I didn’t know whether to tend to her or to him.

Or whether to sit back and watch.

I used to love watching with his girlfriends. Especially Linda Nunez.God, the way he used to make out with her fueled my dreams for years. There was something liquid in their movement like they slogged through honey to reach each other. Every move was sweet, in slow-motion, and accompanied by his complete and undivided attention. I wanted to know what that felt like so bad.

It wasn’t just him that was interesting to watch.

Tiffany was different with him, too. With me, she teased, she coerced, she fluffed but with Dante, she was lovely and easy and open and gentle. Their familiarity was intimate; so intimate that I felt the prick of isolation, followed by doubt of having business to stay there. But because Tiffany (generous and omniscient as she was) saw me and crooked her index finger as an invitation to join them, the thoughts were fleeting.

She and I swapped places. Dante coaxed me to his pillow, the one that was sandwiched between his lower arm and his sprawling, messy hair.

It brought me back to how we used to lay on the grass at school and face the sun while we listened to the group around us share stories. When he wanted my attention, he’d say _Micah_ under his breath, like he was going to tell me a secret. I’d turn to face him and when I did, everyone else in the world disappeared. There was something in laying down side-by-side with heads rested on the inside crooks of our arms that made me think one day I might close the distance between us.

Now that I had the chance to do exactly that, I hesitated. But he didn’t. He kissed me. His lips parted (as did mine). And when they captured my upper lip, they lingered. I closed my eyes and hummed.

It was as nice as I had imagined.

His lips slipped off mine, though he didn’t move away, and he recited something that sounded like a quotation, “ _Tudo o que acontece uma vez nunca pode acontecer novamente. Mas tudo o que acontece duas vezes certamente acontecer_ _á_ _uma terceira vez.”_

It was in Portuguese, I knew that much. And I could pick out words like _everything_ , _once_ , _never_ , _twice_ , and _certainly_. But I wasn’t fluent and he knew that. So I had to ask, “What’s that mean?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” he said, and wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and kissed me again, this time more deeply. He tasted like Good & Plenty’s. Then I realized why. It was the absinthe.

Below us, Tiffany took me in one hand and Dante in the other, and alternated jacking us off and mouthing us, back and forth. She tried to take us both but, because her mouth was too small for it, she held us together and laved us in a pattern like a Mobius strip.

He nuzzled into my neck and found that spot — _that_ one. The one that made me arch my back. And thistriggered his slow descent down my body, which he made with caresses of his hair and mouth and lips and fingers. The soft thin skin of his inner arm brushed across my chest. In response to whatever noise I made, he lifted my arm away from my body to prop it backward over the pillow and swept all those different parts of him from my elbow down the long line of me to my hip.

Each new part of him changed the drag on my flesh, the wide, hot wash of his exhale, the precise quick movements of his fingers, the wet brush of his tongue with a separate sensation, a lingered coolness that lasted as long as it took for that area to dry. He found a weakness — one I didn’t know of — under my arm, in my pit. It was a place that if I accidentally touched on someone else when I was aiming for an arm or a rib, I would apologize and quickly move away.

But this was new.

It was primal.

Perhaps it was the idea of exploring somewhere forbidden. That because it was a place that produced smells, it was dirty and unclean, something to be avoided. Or because it held a scent that I secretly liked but, because it was taboo, couldn’t mention it.

But no, that wasn’t it at all. It was the way he explored something uncomfortable. Because it was. I wanted to flinch. But instead of letting me shy away, he steadies me, he slowed down, he persisted. I wouldn’t have known to do that.

From now on, however, I would.

Recall — I wasthe mental creature and that information was now stored for future use.

Dante continued his path downward. One of his hands was on my hip, the other on Tiffany’s ass. She looked up at me with a devilish grin, continued jacking me off with one hand, while the other traveled up my front to capture my nipple in a startling pinch.

They met each other's gaze and kissed comfortably, obvious they had done so many times before. But then the brought their kiss to the swollen head of my dick; they tongued it and each other, and left me partially hidden by their lips. Dante and his beginner's tongue, Tiffany and her experienced one. She would do something to me, lithe, soft, delicate, and he would repeat it, heavy, solid, abrupt.

She was charming, he was earnest, and I lay there selfishly, letting them do…whatever it is they wanted to do. They took turns to whisper little somethings to each other. Somethings that I couldn’t hear. Somethings followed by titters and giggles. Somethings that might follow in something wonderful. Tiffany laughed delightedly, and squeaked the top note as she bent a shoulder to her ear, and repeated — this time in a pitch I could hear — “I asked if you were going to fuck his brains out, my Micah.”

That got my attention.

Was I?

Yes.

Yes, I was.

I lubed and suited up and Dante had clambered over me and ended up in an awkward squat. I lifted to my elbows in alarm, “Wait! You’re not ready.” He looked in alarm at Tiffany, who crawled over to me with a correction, “He is, Micah. I gotcha covered.” She wrapped her hand around my dick and held it upright before she turned to Dante to tell him, “Go slow and you’ll be fine. We both right here.”

I stroked him while he positioned himself, bore down, and breached himself on me. Tiffany ran her hands over him in large, sweeping gestures, kissing his hair and forehead while he continued to lower himself. His breath shook. I rubbed his chest. His legs shook. I supported his thighs.

First times were powerful things. I wanted his to be good. With more lube, I ran my fingers up and down the valley of his open crack and around his hole. His eyes were closed and his was mouth open and when he descended to the next point of discomfort, wrinkles appeared on his nose.

“Tiffany,” I mouthed, “come here.” I took her hand and placed it on Dante’s dick to rub him again. He groaned and, sinking into the sensation, he relaxed.

_Another benefit to this threesome thing after all?_

It hit me. I was fucking Dante Te Waero. I was his first. Me. The guy I’ve wanted forever.

_Don’t think about it._

At the same time, I couldn’t _not_ think about it.

I forced my hips to remain still, though to do so, I had to think about nailing the back of my legs against the floor as well. “You’re doing great,” I encouraged and then wished I hadn’t when he sucked air through his teeth. “Are you okay?”

He nodded.

It would sting no matter what, as it always did at first. But soon it wouldn’t.

Or it shouldn’t.

I hoped.

His hands fell to my chest; he leaned over to support him the rest of the way. And when he got there, when he was fully seated, he let loose with a low, deep moan that — I don’t know how this was possible — made me harder. It was one I committed to memory along with the soft _oh_ of his lips, the forward collapse of his shoulders, the stretch of his skin across his knees, the subtle inside shaking I felt though latex, the scent of roses from Tiffany floated over the smokey pine that penetrated our hair and clothes earlier. ,

My hips stayed still (though I wasn’t sure how) while he moved his in circles, he pulsed this way and that, and figured out what worked for him, what felt good. In these first moments, small movements felt huge. Likewise, slow movements felt fast. I stroked his legs, his cock, and his belly to soothe him. And when I felt the little relaxation, his little _letting go_ , I propped myself to meet his kiss.

Then I needed another.

And another.

And just one more.

I could have continued in that vein for ages but we weren’t alone. There were three of us to share kisses and caresses and intimacies. Dante manhandled Tiffany into planting her feet on either side of us, to face me, to bend forward.

The shiny tip of his tongue flickered against the short curls between her legs. It disappeared and then reappeared. Several inches down, the muscles of his throat flexed. Then he swallowed. His hands wrapped inside the bend of her hips and he did something that caused her to collapse with a happy sigh into the crook of my neck.

_Jesus._

If I were entirely honest (and I was not), I wanted Dante to myself. As a second choice, I would be alone with Tiffany. Because as the third in this threesome, I was torn. As soon as I relaxed enough to enjoy a moment with either one of them, I realized the other was alone even in our company. Using Tiffany as a bridge struck me as unsavory. And distracting. Though, on the plus side, it was also pleasurable and kinky.

All of those things.

At the heart of the question, for me, it was about connection. A third person (and what a lovely third person she was) opened a switch. What had been flowing stopped. The dynamic shifted. There were three people still giving their affection to three people. Mathematically, it remained equal. Each person got (on average) the attention of one other person. Thing was, the feedback loop disappeared.

Case in point, I was _inside_ him (god, how did _that_ happen). I wanted to see his face with all the little expressions that flashed over him. All the little stings and joys and pulses and delights. I wanted to watch his body the first time my glans brushed over his p-spot. As it was, I could feel it, I would know when it happened. I wanted more. I wanted to see his reaction. I wanted to watch the sensation move through his body as it transitioned from feeling full and unpleasant to the _oh, wow_ moment that rendered him overwhelmed or fuzzy around the edges or so incredibly hot that he never needed to fuck someone so badly.

Yet, I had no right to be disappointed.

My dick was in Dante’s ass. Tiffany’s hair tickled my shoulders. I kissed a soft, lush neck. This was the kind of thing that teenage boys read when sneaking a peek at their father’s porn stash (or possibly in the one they had started on their own). This was the moment I should have felt like a rock star.

“Oh, god. I want one of you in me _now_ ,” Tiffany groaned and shook her head side-to-side against the skin of my shoulder, her hands clutched the hair on the back of my head. We repositioned ourselves to put Tiffany on her back with her arms and legs open to welcome Dante, who rolled a condom on, lowered himself and rolled his hips to enter her.

“Open your legs,” I prompted and entered him a second time. My forehead was at rest on the base of his neck, my hands splayed on the blankets just behind Dante’s, my lower legs, just inside and parallel to his, Tiffany’s heels up in the air — they wanted to wrap around him but I was already there and so, she let gravity hold them wide open with my body on top of his to prevent them from closing.

Gentle and slow. That was how my thrust went into him. I entered at a different angle. His muscles were engaged in a way they weren’t before. When I bottomed out, I continued the motion — this time with Dante as my proxy — to thrust into Tiffany.

How to fuck two people at once? That was something I hadn’t considered before. And here I was. Something else I had never considered? What it felt like. He must have arched his back and held himself in place for me to enter him before he sunk into her. He was tighter. That was hardly an insult, more a question of anatomy.

On the rebound (I wasn’t sure how else to think of it), he relaxed backward to ease out of her which made it easier for me to ease out of him. Even with the slow movement, I could hear the quiet snaps of wetness along wetness, the sound of him inside her slightly higher pitch than me inside him (or was that a figment of my imagination?)

I pressed into him and moved beyond his resistance. Then, we moved together into her lighter one.

I was fascinated. My inner scientist (this was how he showed up) noted how our motion might veer into the chaotic if I weren’t careful. Dante’s body would soon begin to move as it wanted to and somehow, I had to remain the primary engine. I had to get ahead of him. I searched for the fine balance, to drive without driving over, to push without toppling, to fuck her through him and to make sure, though all of this, that I mattered. That I wasn’t just some person on the outside pushing in. That I wasn’t the one who took my turn to be alone while we were in each other’s company.

But how did I do that?

I released, he relaxed, she rebounded, he pressed into me, and I thrust again.

We moved all together like this, over and over, until we established a rhythm between us. Only then did I vary my angle. Only then did I add small pulses after I bottomed out. Only then did I change from a thrust that was long and drawn-out to an undulation.

Dante tipped his head into the pocket made by her neck and her shoulder, her hand found the same place on him. My hands remained where they were but I sucked on the back of his neck. He groaned and contorted and twisted around to return my kiss, to thrust his tongue into my mouth. It was passionate and wet and gave me a new sense of urgency.

“Yes,” Tiffany moaned beneath us, “Faster, please.”

Then it became a dance. I would lunge forward and she would pitch back. Together, we found the speed and rhythm that worked, while Dante gave it up, not just to me, but to both of us. That was the only way this would have worked. The biggest of us all. And the strongest. He let us have our way with him.

Steadily, we went faster and deeper still, soon with a quicker ricochet. I needed more leverage and found it by wrapping my hands around his shoulders.

Dante, no longer able to remain passive, clenched back on me and propelled into her with a growing force. My control slipped. The chaos earlier foreseen was coming into play. I was in very real danger of getting thrown off. 

I rode him. He rode her. She rode him, He rode me.

As usual, I had just imaged the three of us in steady, perpetual motion, able to go on forever when one of us started to lose it first.

But.

Who was it?

My first hint came when Tiffany’s heels dug into my hips. Her skin, now glowing and pink, was exposed when she threw her head back, when her chest arched up. I could almost feel her nipples jostle against Dante’s along with her ever reddening skin. Then Dante, who lost his rhythm, faltered and listed forward, which created in me an immediate warmth such that when he constricted around me, I went off like a rocket.

The three of us suspended mid-motion while all excess energy was ousted from our cores and limbs and cocks and cunts until we were left sapped and saggy, propped awkwardly against each other. Slowly, we unsheathed from our respective partners and took turns to clean ourselves and each other.

It was Tiffany (again) made my decision on whether to stay or leave. She pulled me down, turned to be my little spoon, and directed Dante to turn off the lights around the tent. He crawledback in bed to face us and tossed his arm over her waist. We lay all together, my body fit Tiffany’s. I snuggled into the blankets and into the back of her neck while our breaths slowly settled into the slow, deep breath of the almost asleep.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of scritching and wafting paper but I was also held by the arms of a strong, warm body, so I didn’t want to open my eyes. My upper foot made an exploration of the item beneath it and discovered a mat of coarse hair over a bent leg that, though relaxed in sleep, was as solid as a rock.

He stirred.

First, he stretched his legs straight and flexed his toes. Next, he arched his back. Then, he reached back with his arms to incidentally scrape at the nylon with his fingernails. Finally, he retracted around me and pulled me close.

_Dante._

The events of the preceding night came back to me.

I opened my eyes; warm, brown ones peered back at me. What did I do now? It was just an evening together. Just a hook-up. I reasoned that casual was best.

But my thinking was slow off the mark. He had already wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and into my hair and leaned in to give me a soft kiss. “Good morning,” he rumbled.

“Morning,” I replied and couldn’t help but to smile.

Several feet away, Tiffany sat on a camping chair (there was a pair of them inside her tent) with one foot tucked underneath her and one side of her voluminous curls tucked behind an ear. She sketched with a squat, black charcoal nub and, without looking up and with a secret smile, she asked in her practiced Elizabethan tongue, “ _Good morrow. Did thou sleep most well_?”

“ _Yea. I thank thee_ ,” I replied and then forgot the Elizabethan words for my question so I had to revert to regular speak, “And you? How’d you sleep?”

“ _I did sleep liketh a lamb,_ ” she purred and glanced at us from under her eyelashes. “ _but t is timeth to receiveth up 'r thee'll beest late f'r w'rk_.”

Oh no.

“What time is it?” I asked and scrambled to find a phone. Dante lifted his wrist and showed me his watch. I was either going to be late or I was going to smell like sex all day.

And I couldn’t be late. In one motion, I tumbled out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and yanked them on. “Why’d you let me sleep so late,” I griped at Tiffany, who pouted and said, “Why’d you have to look so beautiful when you slept?” Which prompted me to roll my eyes even as I zipped my fly and went in search of socks that I vaguely recalled were thrown in some general direction.

In one motion, I tumbled out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and yanked them on. “Why’d you let me sleep so late,” I griped at Tiffany, who pouted and said, “Why’d you have to look so beautiful when you slept?” Which prompted me to roll my eyes even as I zipped my fly and went in search of socks that I vaguely recalled were thrown in some general direction.

“Sorry for rushing out but I’ll see you guys later, yeah? Maybe tonight?”

Dante scratched his head and replied, “I’ll only be here for a few hours. I have to get home.”

I froze.

Not here?

But…this did not compute. Why wouldn’t he be here for the weekend?

As if he read my mind, he said, “I have to work.”

“Can you swing by my stand before you leave?”

His smile was vague but he said he would.

“And you, Tiff?”

“ _Feareth not, i shant beest a strang'r this weekend_ ,” she cooed and tilted her head up for a kiss, which I gave her.

The next several minutes were a blur as I left her tent, slipped into my shoes, ran to my tent where I changed into costume, and booked it to my kiosk.

I had just pulled my first espresso of the morning to check it when a young woman in bright green tights, a pixie haircut, a chain-mail dress, and a Robin Hood hat appeared at my window to order, “I’d like a Turkish coffee with half-n-half instead of milk and an extra shot of expresso.” As she said it, a blond giant with hair down to his waist (he was similarly attired) appeared behind her. “He’ll have a latte,” she announced. The lady turned, scanned him, saw something I couldn't, and added, “Actually, make that a double.”


End file.
